Authors: Homer Hickam
“Perhaps âtis not for any of us mortals,” she replied. Ready felt a failure for not being able to give her a better answer.
He often and surreptitiously watched her when she stood on the bow, her head down in prayer and her lips trembling in silent supplication. The fella boys all seemed to love her so; they watched her with adoration evident in their big brown eyes and gave her encouraging smiles whenever they could catch her eye. It seemed to Ready that the nun was a woman in torment and that the Polynesians were carrying around some kind of secret about her.
Ready kept offering Josh water. Some of it was taken, though much dripped from his slack mouth. Sister Mary Kathleen washed him with copra soap, and Ready dusted sulfa into his wounds, but still they did not heal. The miles flowed on beneath the hulls of the outriggers, and Josh did not wake or show improvement. Finally, the nun took Ready aside. “I think yer captain will surely die,” she said.
“Is there anything more I can do?” Ready asked.
“Pray, Bosun,” she answered. “ âTis all I know.”
“I can do that, ma'am,” he replied and bowed his head. She smiled at him and watched him with her sea-blue eyes. The bosun was a good man, she'd decided, and kind. She liked him and was pleased that he might like her back, though she feared he would loathe her when he discovered all that she had done. She considered telling all to him, but such revelation, she admonished herself, would only be another form of self-importance and pride.
Nay, she would keep her secrets until God revealed His plan for her punishment or salvation.
At night, when she took the air on the bow, listening to the chuckling of the sea being swept aside by the outrigger, Sister Mary Kathleen often prayed for Captain Thurlow, though any and all her prayers felt small and unheard beneath the great canopy of the sky. It was so easy to look up into its vastness and sense that God was not there but far away, that He had done His work on earth and left His creation to itself. Whether it prospered or not, whether men lived or died, whether they were joyful or suffered, He no longer cared. He had wound His eternal clock, and now it simply ticked on without interference. “ 'Tis the sea,” she told herself when she had such sinful contemplations. “'Tis its great, endless self. Here God makes Himself small. I know not why.”
In moments of uncertainty and doubt, Sister Theresa spoke to her across time and tide: “When ye take yer vows, Kathleen, yer life will be all for Jesus. Never forget that, even when ye are filled with the gravest doubts. Say it for me, now.”
“All for Jesus,” Sister Mary Kathleen whispered in the darkness of the great sea. She recalled saying the same words when she had turned away Desmond 'Rourke, the sweet young man who had professed his love to her the night before she'd taken her vows of sisterhood. He had slipped over the walls of the convent, crept down the dark corridors redolent with soap-scrubbed floors, and somehow found her cell. There, he had gone down on one knee.
Sweet Kathleen,
'd begged,
come away. Be my wife, have children with me, help me raise a family. Ye are too good to be buried alive in a nun's shrouds.
She had been tempted, but she loved Jesus, the perfect man beside whom all mortal men could not compare. She had gladly pledged herself to Him forever. But where, she asked now and then, had Jesus been during her ordeal on Ruka?
Sweet Jesus, why doYe forsake me?
She had groaned those words to heaven as she lay in the filthy cell where Colonel Yoshu had put her all those months, a cell that seemed to shrink around her at night as she lay quaking in fear of being bitten by starving rats and giant cockroaches. Jesus was all powerful, wasn't He? Could He not have spared her the torture if He had cared enough? She concluded that if she suffered, it was because He desired it, perhaps to see if her faith was strong. It was the only explanation she could accept, not the one put forth by Father Ballester, that Jesus was a good example for the heathens but in reality a myth. Nay, Jesus was real, real as she,
and real as Colonel Yoshu. But as a husband, she thought, Jesus was not as kind or gentle as perhaps Desmond O'Rourke might have been.
When the sun sank beneath the sea on the sixth day of the voyage, Ready, who was sleeping, felt something touch his foot and was astonished to discover it was Captain Thurlow's trembling fingers. Ready took his captain's big, sweaty hand while Josh looked up at him with raw pink eyes. “What is it, Skipper?” Ready asked. “Do you need a drink of water?”
Josh Thurlow, during those days of sailing, had often dreamt of many things, of many people and places. Now he thought he was still dreaming because he seemed to be aboard a kind of native canoe. The air was also fresh with the sea. “Is this heaven, Ready?” he asked in wonder.
Ready felt Josh's forehead, and to his joy, it felt cool. “No, sir, not heaven, but at least not hell, neither.”
“Then we've left Tarawa,” Josh mumbled. “There's a blessing.”
“I'll change his dressings!” Sister Mary Kathleen cried. She began to work away on Josh with bandages and ointments, all the while telling him that he would soon be better, yes he would, and that he was a strong man, to be sure he was.
Josh stared at her. He had some vague memory of seeing this whiteshrouded woman before. He allowed her to turn him this way and that, and raise and lower his arms and legs, and scrub him and rub him and paint ointment on him, but during all her ministrations, his eyes never left her face while he tried to recall who she might be.
“Is your captain a modest man?” she asked Ready, and when Ready shrugged, not certain what Josh Thurlow was when it came to being naked in front of nuns, she said to one of her fella boys, “Valuta, you have lava-lava for this one fella?”
Valuta, who was young, handsome, oiled, and tattooed like all the other native men, smiled fondly at her and unrolled a palm frond mat, which held, among other things, a bolt of cloth and a pair of scissors. He sized Josh up, then cut the cloth, which was red with a pattern of green flowers, and Sister Mary Kathleen wrapped it around Josh's waist. “There,” she said, finishing the knot that held it in place. “Yer in fashion for these latitudes.”
Josh had not been much concerned about his nakedness, but he was very hungry and said so. Sister Mary Kathleen brought him chunks of fish, which the fella boys caught in copious numbers simply by tossing out a
string and a baited hook. The fish was grilled on a little kerosene stove, which was also used to boil rice in a tin pot. Josh ate it all, fish and rice, and drank water and felt renewed. For the remainder of the evening, he ate, then slept, then woke, and ate and drank again. Come morning, he was capable of voicing two questions, both to the nun: “What is my condition?” and “Who are you?”
She leaned against the thwart opposite him, her white cotton habit rustling in the breeze, and considered his questions, answering the second first. “Well, Captain, I am Sister Mary Kathleen, of the Order of the Sacred Blood. We are an Irish order, dedicated to the sustenance of mankind, and have outposts in the Pacific.”
“Is this the first time we've met, Sister?”
“Nay. I first met ye on Betio, beside a sand fortress. One of me fella boys died saving yer life. Do ye recall such?”
Josh nodded that he did recall such, indeed. “I regret your fella boy took that sword for me. He said I was his brother.”
“Tomoru was a brave man,” she replied.
“But I also recall you and I argued. I thought you were a devil.”
She held out the sides of her habit, then raised the rosary on her cincture. “As you can see, I am but a wee Irish nun.”
He squinted at her. “Not more than nineteen years old, neither.”
“I'm twenty-four, but thank ye,” she answered, smiling shyly. “As to yer injuries, here is an accounting: Ye have a terrible bruised rib on yer left side with a bad scrape, yer left bicep has an infected wound, quite deep, and there would be a three-inch gash in yer back, also infected. Yer right knee is swollen, I think there's a piece of jagged metal in it, and there's another small wound on the back of yer neck, which is healing, thank God. And this and that, here and there, else. To be honest, though yer fever has broke, I still give ye no better than an even chance to live, considering the infections and your general health.”
“An honest assessment. I'll take them odds,” Josh said and then pushed up on his elbows to have a look about. “Did we win?” he asked, grimacing due to his bruised ribs. “At Tarawa, I mean?”
Ready moved so his captain could see him. “I'm pretty sure we did, sir. The Japanese were all about dead when we left. A lot of them killed themselves.”
Josh took on a grim aspect. “They are brave soldiers, but too brave in my estimation. They indulge in frontal assaults, and when those fail, as they
invariably do, they kill themselves. Let us hope they keep the same philosophy throughout the war, for if they do, we shall surely win it.”
“I came across one of them, just before he blew his head off,” Ready advised. “I think he was a fisherman.”
“A double waste, then.” Josh made to look about but failed since his neck was stiff. “Are we alone?”
“There are four outriggers, including ourselves,” the nun answered, “with four of my fella boys on each, although 'tis but the bones of Tomoru on one of them. We are carrying him home for burial.”
“Where's home?”
“The Forridges. Some call them the Far Reaches.”
Josh absorbed that information, then asked, “Why am I here?”
“Because Colonel Burr sent you.”
Josh was sure he must have heard the nun wrong. “Colonel Burr sent me? Why?”
“Because he knew I needed a big man who could convince the Japanese to surrender.”
“What Japanese?”
“The ones in the Far Reaches, of course,” she answered, her eyes honest and wide.
Josh feared he was still in one of his fever-addled dreams. He eyed the tattooed man who was managing the sheet with his big toe. “You there. Captain of the outrigger. What name belong you?”
Nango, startled by the sudden demand, frowned at Josh but answered, “Nango. What name belong you?”
“Josh Thurlow. But you might know me as Jahtalo.”
“Jahtalo,” Nango mused, then nodded. “Yes. I know Jahtalo. Cabum boy
Bad-sheba.”
Josh smiled. “Nango, tell me, is this a dream?”
Nango laughed. “No, Jahtalo. This belong here-now, not spirit place.” Sister Mary Kathleen was astonished at the exchange. “You and Nango have met before?”
Josh arranged his thoughts, then told his story. “When I was just a pup, I spent a year in these waters as cabin boy on a two-masted trading schooner named the
Bathsheba.
The old girl often visited the Forridges. Nango's daddy, as I recall, is chief of Ruka. Namu, that were his name. Right, Nango?”
Nango's mouth turned down and tears flooded his big brown eyes. “Daddy Namu all finish. Japonee all finish daddy Namu.”
“Colonel Yoshu murdered all the native leaders on Ruka,” Sister Mary Kathleen explained.
“Colonel Yoshu?”
“The commander of the Japanese.”
Josh shook his head. “Sister, let me catch up. Do the Japanese occupy the Far Reaches?”
“Only Ruka,” she answered, “which is the seat of government, as I sup-pose you know.”
“And pray tell me again what you want me to do?”
“I want you to tell Colonel Yoshu to surrender.”
“Sister, no Japanese commander is going to surrender.”
“That's what Colonel Burr said, but if you told Colonel Yoshu the situation, that the Americans had taken Tarawa, I think he might listen.”
“How would I tell him anything? Go in with a white flag? He'd have my head off in an instant.”
“I will go with you if you're afraid,” she said with her chin up.
Josh studied the little nun, then said, “You're damn right I'm afraid, Sister. Anybody in their right mind would be afraid!”
She lowered her chin and struggled with her temper. “We can talk about this later, perhaps.” She rose and moved to the bow, where dolphins were playing.
Josh looked after the nun, then groaned when he tried to move.
“Can I do anything for you, sir?” Ready inquired.
“Yes, turn this boat around. I recall now that I tried to murder Colonel Burr. I need to go back and finish the job.”
“I can't do that, sir. Only Sister can, I reckon.”
“Nango, good fella boy!” Josh called. “Take me back to Tarawa. I pay you many Yankee dollah.”
Nango smiled. “No, Jahtalo. We go Far Reaches.”
Josh, too tired to press an argument he knew he was going to lose, lay back and squinted into the cloudless sky. He felt a sudden wave of sadness wash over him, and he saw anew the faces of the dead men on Tarawa. “I could use that drink of water, Bosun,” he said to Ready, “if it wouldn't be too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” Ready answered and went to the water barrel while Josh kept studying the sky until he realized who or what he was looking for. He had recalled seeing an ancient bird, the Killakeet pelican named Purdy, floating above a sand fort on Tarawa. Surely that had been a feverish
dream, but dreams and truth seemed to be mixed up in his mind. All he knew was that he was very tired. When Ready brought a wooden cup to him, Josh drank the cool water and then sank back on his mat, determined to think things through and figure it all out. Instead, he was very nearly instantly into a dreamless sleep, resting up for what he did not know or could scarce imagine.
Just as Colonel Burr had predicted, the sea air proved to be something of a tonic for Josh, although Ready's sulfa might have had something to do with it, along with the nun's tender care. Soon Josh's wounds had ceased festering and the yellow pus drained away, though his ribs still ached and the scabs across his body were itchy and his right knee was stiff. He felt something hard moving beneath the skin at the base of the knee and suspected the nun was rightâthere was a piece of shrapnel lodged there. He decided to leave it alone in the hope that it might work itself out over time. If people left most hard and difficult things alone, he thought, they might all work themselves out. Josh, however, could not take his own advice. He borrowed Nango's knife and, at night when most were asleep, dug out the piece of steel, which proved to be a fragment oddly shaped like the hull of a boat. In fact, it reminded him of his old cutter, the
Maudie Jane.
Nango wrapped a turn of wire about it and fashioned a necklace for Josh. The nun admonished him for his surgery and said his digging around his knee with a dirty knife was surely the final blow to his health, but the wound healed quickly, though the knee remained stiff.